


Dichotomy

by killyourstarlings



Category: Incredibles (Pixar Movies)
Genre: (Very Slight), (will probably add more tags later), Breathplay, Cheating, Depression, Drunk Sex, F/F, F/M, Heavy Angst, Internalized Homophobia, Panic Attacks, Smut, helen is bi and human and makes mistakes, not a bob-hating fic jsyk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-29
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-02 04:54:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16779991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killyourstarlings/pseuds/killyourstarlings
Summary: It was such a strange dichotomy, now from then — the way she’d eaten her alive with all the panic of running out of time, of chasing after something that wouldn’t survive the night — only to arrive here, just apart, reaching out but holding back.





	1. Holy Sick Divine Nights

* * *

**_THEN_ **

* * *

It was a warm, pink haze, and it rolled over her like ocean tides, and peeled off like layers. It was unadulterated silence, except the slow hum of her breathing and the occasional revving of a distant motor. She woke in a pool of liquid sheets, buried in a foam mattress, greeted with the scent of salt and sandalwood and alcohol as she drew a cleansing breath…

She’d slept as though she were drowning, and it was heavenly. Her muscles were numb and eyelids heavy against every attempt to wake, reeling her back down into the pillow, into the blind heat. The inside of her lids burned with yellow morning light — bracing, she squinted open at the world.

Her mouth twitched.

Sunshine peeked through floor-length curtains, glancing over traces of clothing that did not belong to her. The bedside table was a clutter, magnified through an overturned wine glass still holding a puddle of red. Her mask was discarded behind the lamp; she palmed at her face, inhaling sharply.

This wasn’t her hotel room.

Her mind was a blur of drowsiness and hangover as she scrambled to put a name to this place, to recall the steps she took to get here. Inching up onto her elbow, silently, she stretched over to reach for her mask. Her arm brushed against the lampshade, twitching the lightbulb into place — it lit up the room. She jolted away, eyes shut against the brightness, heart jumping as it flooded over her…

_Steps barely caught under her as she stumbled into the black, but she was floating anyway. Sharp breaths hissed through slow lungs, waves through doorways, slow and muggy and humid; warm hall light blurred around Evelyn’s frame, the door left open. Hands — one tangled in Helen’s hair, an anchor; the other twisting the last button off her own shirt until she could awkwardly slant, shrugging it off, letting it slump to the floor. Helen’s mouth followed hers, chased after it…_

_Evelyn’s lips were burning hellfire and it blew her down — warm and wet and puffy, tasting of wine, silk in her mouth. A force of nature pushed Helen backward, and she pulled Evelyn into her gravity, away from the waning light of the closing door and into the muggy dark. Her legs hit back against the bed, and Evelyn leaned into her, draping her over the bedframe._

_She fell to the sheets, a star to earth, and drew a full, gasping breath. Evelyn’s teeth found her ear, and her elbows burrowed into the mattress on either side, a shield, a wall between them and the world. Helen kissed at her cheek and into her hair, following her as long as she could as Evelyn trailed down her neck, tasting, hurrying, as though a power in heaven or hell could stop them now. Helen eased her hand over Evelyn’s arm, a reassurance — and Evelyn held it like a lifeline as she ventured down between her breasts…_

_Her head relaxed into the pillow, breaths becoming pants, eyes trailing off as Evelyn’s mouth explored her. Drunken wonder turned a window full of city lights into a star-storm, twinkling and crackling with every pang in her stomach,_ **_fireworks_ ** _as Evelyn’s knee drew up between her legs and pressed. All the oxygen was drawn from her body; her lips struggled over language as damp skin met air, her suit peeling down over her waist. She lifted her hips, desperate, as Evelyn undressed her._

_Cool fingertips brushed over her stomach and she jumped — one hand closing over her breast, one hand still knotted in Evelyn’s, now squeezing as Evelyn ventured lower, closer… The stifling heat and the glittering lights and the roaring in her ears were overpowering, and she wanted to close her eyes and surrender to it, but she didn’t, because it was wrong and she couldn’t…_

_One stroke, and her vision flared. A bead of sweat trickled down her leg._

_Helen dropped Evelyn’s hand for a moment and reached over, scrambling in the dark for the lamp switch. When she found it, the room filled with a warm, easy glow — and her eyes met Evelyn’s. They both paused, suspended in time, as if to see what the other was thinking._

_Helen’s gaze dropped to her core, and she swallowed._

_It was wrong, and if she was going to do it, she was going to soak it up — and she was going to watch._

Now, Helen lay frozen in place, and swallowed against nausea. At this moment, she became aware of the warmth emanating from her side.

Slowly — so slowly that her neck creaked — she peeked to the right. The pillow was empty, but down below, a lump curled up beneath the sheets, a cocoon. Only her hair poked up above the blankets, a soft and proper disaster against the bottom of her pillow. Her body rose and fell with deep, restful breaths. They barely touched, save the smooth knee draped over Helen’s numbing leg.

When Helen listened closely, a light snore touched the air.

Her heart panged with slow-rising panic, her headache protesting against the lamplight, her leg very trapped under Evelyn’s, yet grounded. Blinking down, she spotted her supersuit just under the edge of the bed, pooled on the carpet. Her underwear were nowhere to be found.

Biting her lip, her fingers gripped at the edge of the blankets. She lifted.

Helen, herself, was limp as death, muscles sated and drained from whatever they’d done last night — her inner thighs were littered with pink bruises, a good hint. She turned to her company, gaze raking up Evelyn’s protruding leg and along her side. One arm was curled up to her chest, the other thrown over her head; a mess of feathery brown hair fell over her brow, just shy of tickling her nose, floating up with every heavy breath…

Evelyn looked like a dream.

And it was a terrible, horrible idea, but it circled Helen like a shark and wouldn’t let her move in any other direction. Sinking her teeth in, holding her breath tight in her lungs, she reached a finger out for Evelyn’s arm, her skin, just to know if this was real.

With featherlight touch, her hand spread over Evelyn’s side — smoothest at first, gliding against her fingertips like sand, slight ridges over her ribcage and down the plane of her abdomen, too low…

_The air held moisture like a humid shore, the sheets catching their breath, swiping up Helen’s back as she inched down a kiss at a time, wet trails along Evelyn’s side. Her hips dipped down, stomach rose, hills and valleys, soft and lifting to her mouth. Nails stroked through her hair from up above, lulling her into a dream-state through slow, heavy blinks. She huffed into the hollow of her hip and closed a kiss onto her skin._

_Salt and sandalwood filled her lungs._

_Her hands dragged down Evelyn’s slick back, grasping her ass and catching a gasp from up in heaven. She pulled on her hips, rolling her onto her side, closer — close enough to see in the dim orange beneath the sheets. One hand slipped over her hipbone, fingers tracing a slow line down…_

_She trespassed, cold fingertips over warmth and wet, and her hair went to knots in Evelyn’s grasp. Her eyes flared; she wandered, drifting down over soaked silk skin, a careful stroke. The pillows shifted. She heard her name._

_Pressing another kiss to her stomach, she stroked again, bottom to top, and dipped inside her. Sinful warmth throbbed around her, melted over her; she forgot to breathe, just watching it happen, witnessing the reaction. Again, she teased over her, pushing deeper, and Evelyn’s legs curled up at the sensation. She heard her name again._

_“Please…”_

_Electricity raced through her at the mere word. She sank a finger into her, biting her lip, and curled it against her walls…_

_A throaty sigh sounded, muffled through the blankets — a thigh came up over Helen’s ear, as if to blot out any remnant of reality, to bury her. She held her captive in this moment, and it was heavenly. It was strong, ungodly,_ **_unearthly_ ** _…_

A sleepy sigh sounded, and Evelyn rolled closer, leg stretching far over Helen’s side. Helen’s heart stopped.

This was real. She had done this.

Oh, _god_.

Her neck began to sweat; she covered her mouth, afraid of whatever would come out of her, noise or otherwise. She’d slept with someone — she’d slept with someone _else_ , and she’d liked it, and she’d liked it _a lot_. She was in bed with someone. She was naked with someone. She was touching someone.

Everything went clammy, and wobbly, and her stomach was at her throat. She gripped the edge of the table for balance, knuckles white and sending pounding pulses into her temples. She hadn’t felt so hungover until she sat up, or so nauseous.

 _She had done this_.

She dug a hand into her hair — tugged the sheet up over her exposed chest, as though someone were looking — as though there were a secret to keep there, anyway — as though she hadn’t just had sex with a practical stranger, a new friend at best-

The mattress shifted. Evelyn was waking up.

She whipped her mask off the nightstand, knocking the light out again. She inched out of bed, as quickly and quietly as she could manage, holding the sheet over her until she’d collected her supersuit. Mask in teeth, she jerked the suit up her legs…

“Wh…”

Helen nearly levitated from panic, mask falling to the floor. She stuffed herself into the suit, up to the waist, and glanced over her shoulder with a quick breath.

The blankets rose up into form, and Evelyn’s head emerged. Sleep clouded her eyes, and she winced against the sunlight, hand raised to shoo it away. She was cute, and sluggish, until her gaze landed on Helen. They both stopped short.

Helen’s mouth opened to say something — to offer some kind of explanation as to why she’d come here, why she’d _slept with her_ , and why she was leaving, and where she was going, and what this meant — but nothing was coming. Nothing was coming. She needed _something_ , but all she could find was the confusion and hurt in Evelyn’s stare, and it sank her like a rock.

“I…” she tried, desperately. Heat swelled in her cheeks as she stood half-naked, holding her second-day supersuit over her chest, hair standing on its end. She swallowed acid.

Evelyn blinked, visibly processing. Her voice came raspy with sleep and low — dull, as though she were perfectly unsurprised. “You’re leaving.”

Everything came tumbling out.

“I shouldn’t have done this,” Helen murmured, head spinning. She shoved her shaking hands into her sleeves. “I shouldn’t have done this. I don’t know why. I don’t…”

Evelyn’s mouth twitched. She was hurt. Helen didn’t mean to hurt her.

“I- I have to-”

“Okay,” she muttered.

“It’s not your fault- it’s just, _this_ … This was a big mistake; it’s- it’s the worst thing I could have possibly- and I don’t know why, or why it was you-”

“ _Okay_ ,” Evelyn repeated with strain, hand pressed to her forehead. She closed her eyes hard. “If you’re gonna go, just go. Don’t feel the need to… do whatever it is you’re doing, here. Just go.”

Helen’s face fell. “Evelyn, I’m-”

“Can we not make a fucking spectacle of this, please?” Evelyn shot back. Her arm swung out toward the door. “You know how to use it. Just… fuck.”

She reacted as though this was something she knew how to do.

Shoulders sinking and ears ringing, she forced herself to turn away — into the blinding light of the window, but this hurt less. Her arm stretched back to zip herself up, a light groan as her back popped. Helen felt eyes on her as she leaned down for her mask, all the blood rushing to her head.

She felt like _shit_. They must’ve downed bottles.

The room was silent, uncomfortable, as Helen looked around for her boots. She itched so bad to leave that she almost went barefoot — but there was one, at the foot of the bed, and the other at the bathroom door. She chewed blood from her lip as the bed shifted behind her; reaching down for the other shoe, her stomach lurched and vision fuzzed…

Her hand shot out to catch herself on the wall, the other clamping around her stomach. Helen screwed her eyes shut, vertigo swirling around her, sharp pain reaching the nape of her neck…

Today was just going to be a bitch. She pressed herself up slowly, daring to squint her eyes open.

“Do you…”

She jumped at Evelyn’s voice, thought it was calmer now — rounder at the ends. Gathering all her strength, Helen peeked over her shoulder, against the burning yellow. Evelyn sat up now, watching her. Her eyebrows drew together.

“Yeah?” Helen asked, and swallowed.

Evelyn’s lips pressed together for a moment, as if debating over whether or not to finish the thought.

“You could get some coffee, before you go,” she offered, her concern showing through. Her gaze danced over Helen’s hunched posture. “So you don’t… pass out.”

The words themselves were blunted, a casual suggestion from a slouched and sleepy Evelyn; but her eyes gave her away, focused and rounded with fear, locked on Helen. It was such a strange dichotomy, now from then — the way she’d eaten her alive with all the panic of running out of time, of chasing after something that wouldn’t survive the night — only to arrive here, just apart, reaching out but holding back. She wavered, seeming so much smaller — wanting, but afraid…

_“Look at me.”_

_Evelyn was going to burn her down._

_She writhed the sheets into twisting patterns, grasping for anything, slipping away. Panic bubbled inside her, rapid and shallow breaths puffing through her lungs, an erratic rhythm in her core, throbbing. Her hips jerked upward; her stomach tensed hard as sweat rolled down her thighs…_

_Evelyn’s free hand brushed Helen’s damp hair out of her face, summoning her up — she opened her eyes to find Evelyn’s stare on her, almost a physical impact. Two fingers pulsed inside her and she could barely see straight, but Evelyn commanded it with a set brow. She consumed her with her gaze, so full of certainty, of raw hunger, of_ **_blood_ ** _…_

_Helen gasped against a twinge of sensation, eyes squeezing shut only to snap back open again. She couldn’t breathe; the pressure was building and she chased it with her every muscle, straining, lips trembling under Evelyn’s watchful gaze. She drowned in the sensation and the sweat and the determination in Evelyn’s eyes as she leaned in, lips poised to whisper in Helen’s ear._

_“Come.”_

_Her body complied with this order, and it was_ **_heavenly_ ** _. It was rolling throbs at her very center, as waves rushed in her ears and lights burst before her eyes; it was her blood igniting to flames, showering off sparks or bullets or embers — it was red, white, red, white, and her heart stopped and pounded at once, and she died and woke up at once, and yes,_ **_yes_ ** _, all she could think was_ **_yes_ ** _…_

“Is that a no?”

Helen blinked, mind racing, focus lost somewhere in the carpet. Her body still hung against the wall, almost dressed, plagued by a dull ache from toe to head and reaching a point just behind her head. She closed her eyes.

She couldn’t handle this right now, in this state. She couldn’t go back to her room, or back home, or even walk down the hall with greasy bedroom hair and every pair of eyes on her, on _Elastigirl_ , the Super of the hour. She couldn’t handle whatever this conversation would be with Bob, or even the idea of Bob and however the hell she’d ever- how _they’d_ be able to…

Sharp pain pierced her temple. She groaned, lifting her head.

 _Coffee_.

She could handle coffee.

* * *

**_NOW_ **

* * *

This spring had rained like an illness, but today, it was only a drizzle. It tickled the windows, hidden behind shades drawn tight, and the noise drew her skin up into goosebumps. Sheer curtains danced against the vent, making the whole room seem to shiver; the sun was hiding this early morning, cozy in its blanket of clouds, casting the world in gray tones.

She tugged the sheets up to her shoulders, bared by her sleeveless pajama top. Under the covers, his head lifted toward the movement — she exhaled deeply, some kind of reassurance that she was still enjoying herself. He took the cue and returned to his ministrations…

Her body was tired and unresponsive from hours of chasing after sleep, and she could feel his frustration building. The house was deathly silent, almost motionless save the rolling sheets down below as his mouth worked over her clit, alternating strategies, waiting for a new result. She ground into the mattress, huffing a breath in prolonged anticipation.

Flutters of sensation sparked up now and again, churning in her stomach like dread and fizzling out like snuffed flames. Her hips rose up to his mouth, legs knotting around his neck to keep him there, because she could feel it, just on the edge — so close, and so far… She could _get_ there if she could just…

Her head thumped to the pillow with a groan. She blinked up at the ceiling, attempting to relax.

He kept up a valiant effort, hands brushing widely over her thighs. She wanted to direct him to something new, but she couldn’t think of anything they hadn’t tried; she wanted to tell him it was fine, that she was tired, that she needed to start on breakfast anyway. But lately, it was all about proving something, to him or to herself.

She sighed. _Come on…_

Her eyes unfocused as she allowed her mind to drift somewhere up above. The sharp cold closed in around her, absorbed into her exposed skin, drawing down to the heat of breath between her legs — a solid point, like the north pole of a magnet. If she dissociated enough, she was just this feeling, just this familiar hunger.

Distant warmth pierced her mind, a rosy idea that came to her now and then. A heavy, throaty voice teased her ear, just hers to hear and no one else’s. The buzz of wine and desire, and the echoing moans in her head, and the ghosting touches over her skin could all come back to her in an instant if she let them…

It was so natural, thinking of her — just like falling asleep.

Her hand had come over her breast, cold fingers circling, shooting stars down to her core. She dragged it away, fingers gliding down over her stomach and settling in Bob’s hair. _Him_ , she reminded herself as she tangled into him. _Here_.

The stars began to fade, even as she tried to catch them, to spark them against his fingers. Her breaths were slowing again, vanishing; she bit into her lip and shook her head in quiet defiance. She didn’t want to go there anymore — it was just a temporary fix. It was a nightmare that she couldn’t repress, and it _hurt_ , and it hurt more than it helped…

He huffed impatiently against her thigh. She grimaced, nothing but the silence and the hallway clock ticking down time.

 _Maybe just for a minute._ She closed her fingers over her breast and let her eyes drift to a shut. _Just a minute or two._

The moment she let herself go, it came like a wave and a crash. In the haze behind her lids came the lamplit face, smoky blue eyes locked in focus and penetrating every layer of Helen’s defense. In came the thin lips bitten and swollen, brow furrowed over her, bare arms like towers on her either side, pinning her down — against the mattress, up the wall, wherever she’d pleased — so easy and so determined as she wracked her body with waves and crashes and waves and crashes…

If she really focused, she could feel it even now — lips over her breasts and hips, nails squeezing, teeth nipping — lips smiling from across the room, nails tapping on the conference table, teeth peeking out when she laughed at whatever Helen had said. She could feel it like a dream, where everything felt real even though she knew it wasn’t and all she could ask was that it wouldn’t drift too soon, not until she’d gotten the chance to really love it, to really _know_ it…

“ _Ev…_ ”

She came with a groan, tumbling over her like dominoes and pulsing through her, pure relief. Her blood crackled in her veins and spread warmth everywhere, even as the air conditioner roared back to life. Hands falling to her sides, she exhaled deeply, a silent thanks.

Down below, Bob lifted the sheets for air. She could feel his eyes on her but she did not move, just hanging in this moment. He huffed a contented breath, sounding proud of himself.

“Did you say something?” he asked, just a whisper. Her eyes opened — blurry, twisting ceiling. “Just a second ago?”

Peeling her head off the pillow, she looked down at him and blinked. “Nothing,” she muttered, and gave a weak smile. “I love you.”

This came out choked and guilty, but he took it like a gift. A few more kisses on her stomach and he rolled over to his back, only his hand left on her thigh. She lay on a separate plane, stiff, though her body felt like drowning.

This wasn’t sustainable. She knew that.

She just didn’t know how to move on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know exactly why I wrote this story. I was inspired as I left the theatre, and started writing this during the summer -- now it's winter and it's barely done. Sorry to fans of my Bob/Helen stuff; this one probably won't be for you. Idk lemme know what you think, cya.


	2. You and All Your Vibrant Youth

* * *

**_THEN_ **

* * *

“If you could have a different power, what would it be?”

She blinked over the rosy-stained skyline, muted blue grazing over backlit skyscrapers as the sun sank behind them to cast shadows over the city. Clouds puffed up between the silhouetted buildings, one long trail dragging after a northbound airplane. Her gaze staggered along its path, down the window; her reflection smirked.

“These are the hard-hitting questions of today’s media?” Helen asked, head resting between her thumb and forefinger. She shrugged. “Okay.”

Her shoulder flattened to absorb Evelyn’s playful shove, though it sent her chair rolling a couple inches. Helen caught her elbow on the conference table, giggling behind closed lips.

“Just answer the question,” Evelyn said dryly, smiling. It was difficult to take her seriously in her current state — cross-legged and sinking down into her chair, hair up at its ends from twisting her pencil into it, cheeks a little pink from the piping hot coffee she’d made for dinner. “You know they’re gonna ask something silly like this. It’s TV, for Christ’s sake.”

“Yeah, I see why we’re prepping,” she teased. “Wouldn’t want to answer that question wrong.”

Evelyn reached out and Helen flinched for impact; with a shit-eating grin, Evelyn swept her coffee cup off the table. Her free hand extended a middle finger, which sent Helen spiraling into chuckles.

“Okay, okay.” Clearing her throat, Helen assumed her camera posture. She glanced out the window in thought. “I guess, if I could have any other power…”

Her eyes followed the airplane as it inched out of view overhead. She drew a deep breath.

“I think I’d choose foresight,” Helen answered on instinct. “You know, seeing the future?”

Mug covering her face, Evelyn gave a muffled, “Mhm.”

“Yeah.” Her eyebrows raised at the idea; she stretched out to grab her own cup. “I think being able to know what’s gonna happen, even just a few seconds in advance, would just be so  _ handy _ .”

She kept forgetting why she’d shoved the coffee so far away in the first place. Her expression soured at the earthy, nigh on dirty-tasting coffee — but the kick was strong, and the day was long, so she took a full, awful sip and suffered for progress.

Sighing out steam, she set the mug down with a clack. “And if I could go far enough to see how my kids turn out — see how  _ I _ turn out, or know the best outcome of a situation — I don’t think I could have any regrets.”

That caught Evelyn’s eye, but she looked away fast enough that Helen could wonder if she imagined it. Heat hissed at the base of her throat and she swallowed against it.

The two of them had yet to dignify their drunken adventure with a discussion. No love was lost between Helen and Bob, because she hadn’t told him, and she didn’t know when she would. Of course, it would eat at her until something snapped; of course, he would find out somehow and it would be worse because she  _ didn’t  _ tell him in the first place. She knew all that, and yet, when she faced his voice on the other end of the phone, she froze — choked, until she could get out the words, “How was your day, honey?”

It wasn’t handled by any stretch of the imagination, but it was… managed. The unspoken resolution between Helen and Evelyn was to pretend it hadn’t happened, to keep their gazes at eye level, and to politely decline that second glass of wine. This conference room had become their neutral ground, safe from whatever the hell had happened outside.

“Eh.”

Another mug sounded against the table. Helen blinked up at her. “What?”

As though she’d forgotten Helen was there, Evelyn’s eyes widened — she tangled her pencil deeper into her hair. “Nothing.”

Helen’s brow furrowed. “You ‘eh’ed. Do you not like my answer?”

They locked eyes for a moment. The atmosphere released, tension fading into something more comfortable.

“ _ I _ don’t know,” Evelyn said with a big one-armed shrug, shoulder inching out of her button-down shirt to reveal the tank top underneath. She tucked the pencil behind her ear. “If you know all that shit, what’s the point of living anymore? It’s just going through what you already know’s gonna happen — fulfilling prophecy. It’s boring.”

“Well, I’m sorry to bore you,” Helen shot back with a hint of a smile. Leaning back into her chair, she crossed her legs. “What would you choose?”

Evelyn’s hand flattened to her chest. “Me?”

Helen nodded. Evelyn screwed her lips into a tight knot.

“I’d be able to stop time,” she decided, as her eyes settled on the cityscape — the slow-rolling traffic twitching through intersections, headlights flickering to life a car at a time as the sun departed from their sky. “To hold everything still long enough to make the right decision, or to really absorb what’s happening. Making a good second last, in the here and now — that’s worth way more than seeing it in advance.”

Twinkling lights made a show for them on this near-silent evening, whole world a darkening pink and flashing with whites and yellows, like lipstick over a floodlight. It cast a glory tone on Evelyn’s flushed face, her cheeks already rosy from rubbing and coffee steam and exhaustion — but she was always a little exhausted, it seemed — and the purple under her eyes made a sunset of her face. Pale blue irises and chewed red lips and honey-brown eyebrows and glowing skin that softened ivory down her neck and over her shoulders and between her breasts… She was a painting, screaming with color.

The catch in her throat reminded her to stop staring. She pinched a packet of creamer off the table and gave it a few shakes in her hand.

“So what’s life like as a Super?”

Evelyn’s chair rumbled closer as she reeled herself in to the table, other hand collecting her near-empty cup. Noticing Helen’s squint, she twisted her palm toward the open binder between them. “It’s the next question.”

_ Ship-ship-ship  _ — the creamer packet flopped back and forth, her wrist gone limp. She pursed her lips. “Well… It’s the same as it is for anyone else, mostly. You still have work, school, those types of things; someone makes dinner and someone does the laundry. Sure, there’s the added stress of having to be a first-responder-”

“Mm,” Evelyn cut her off from behind her mug, eyes screwed shut. With a hard gulp, she slid the empty cup away. “Don’t say ‘having to be’. Say ‘being’. This is something you’re fighting for — not a job.”

Helen’s motion stopped, as she felt suddenly aware of her presentation. She relaxed her arm and straightened her posture.

“Fair point,” she admitted. “I should be honest, though, shouldn’t I? I mean, for all the aspiring Supers out there — they should know it’s not exactly a bed of roses. It’s all the strain of regular life, and then piled on top, the responsibility of the greater good, the weight of human _lives_ … the nights you don’t sleep because you wonder if you and your loved ones are really safe at all, what with everything you’ve seen. It’s an involving lifestyle, you know? It’s hard work.”

She grated the paper packet against the grain of the wood, shoulders tensing with her words. As watched as she felt, she didn’t look up — just sat in the silence, wondering if anything she said was usable on television.

“And yet, you still want it,” Evelyn thought aloud. She twirled the pencil out from behind her ear in one deft finger motion, the motor function of a mechanic but the showmanship of a magician. Helen remembered her dexterity like a recurrent dream.

She cleared her throat. “It’s not about us. It’s about everyone — about doing what’s best for other people.”

Something about that struck Evelyn’s expression. “Not  _ always _ , though. You can’t be selfless one-hundred percent of the time.”

“Well, that’s what makes us heroes,” Helen said, and flicked the creamer away. “Otherwise we’re just… powerful.”

And though Evelyn gave no enthusiastic agreement, she did seem to accept this answer. Her chair knocked against Helen’s, knee brushing knee. The two of them sat quite close now, but Evelyn didn’t seem to notice, brow knit in focus as she penned something. Helen distinctly remembered Winston telling them  _ not  _ to write in the binder, but she’d leave that between them.

Silence settled over them, save the scratch of frenzied pencil and the lazy flip of a page. Helen became very conscious of herself — her legs, awkwardly caught between Evelyn’s chair and the table — her fingers, tapping anxiously on the table — her gaze, flitting left and right in a constant attempt not to lock onto Evelyn’s face — onto the pencil perched in her teeth, the wrinkle at her eye as she squinted through whatever she was reading…

“I’m not writing anything bad,” Evelyn teased through her chewing. Helen froze, caught — Evelyn’s eyebrow arched. “Just notes.”

The words came with a smile, and Helen’s chest released. “I know.”

Grin widening, she glanced over. “Then what’s with the look?”

“What look?” Helen questioned, perhaps too quickly. Evelyn chuckled.

“The look of  _ death _ you’ve been sending me,” she clarified. “Like you’re terrified of what I’m gonna say.”

And Helen huffed a nervous laugh, the nail firmly hit on the head. She  _ was  _ terrified — she had been since they’d first met, but somehow, Evelyn was always so calm. How did she feel so  _ comfortable  _ all the time?

And why did Helen feel so comfortable with her?

She shifted focus to the task at hand. “I’m more scared of these questions. Will people really ask me this stuff?”

“ _ Oh _ , yeah,” Evelyn droned, leaning on her elbow as she scanned the page. “Whatever gets a headline. Mm.” She motioned for Helen to look on with her. Helen leaned over, following Evelyn’s finger to a particular question.

Helen squinted, hard.

“’What is your greatest weakness?’” she read aloud. She looked up at Evelyn for confirmation. “What is my greatest- I can’t very well tell people that!”

“Of course you can’t!” Evelyn shot back incredulously. “But they  _ always  _ ask, like there’s a chance someone might  _ slip up _ and give away their greatest weakness. It’s genius, truly.”

Helen chuckled, and Evelyn chuckled back, visibly proud to amuse. She poked the eraser into her cheek, simulating a dimple in her smile as she eyed Helen for a second longer than expected. Helen’s face flushed.

“And that’s assuming you even  _ have  _ a weakness,” added Evelyn with a tease to her voice. She swirled her pencil at Helen, gaze wandering over her frame. “You’re elastic. You snap back.”

This statement came with a wink, and in spite of herself, Helen’s whole body lit up in tingles. She looked away, clearing her throat.

“Well, I have my kids — my husband,” she said, ignoring the twinge of guilt under those words. Her legs reeled up into the chair, as if to cover herself. “But I can’t say that on television.”

When she looked up, Evelyn’s playful expression had faded. Flicking the pencil away, she leaned over for the coffeepot. “So dodge the question. Say something that makes you look good, like in a job interview or something.”

Helen watched Evelyn pour, steaming liquid waterfalling into the cup in a slow, smooth motion. “I’ve never had a job interview before.”

That sent Evelyn’s eyebrows skyward; she looked up at Helen, her pouring uninterrupted. “Never? You, Miss Independence?”

She let out a noise of indignation. “Well, I’ve  _ worked _ . I was a waitress up until I had kids, but that didn’t really require an interview — there was a Help Wanted sign, so I hopped in and grabbed an apron.”

Evelyn nodded her understanding, but Helen’s cheeks burned. The convenient timing of her marriage, then her motherhood, had made a lot of decisions for her — and she was fine with that, and how it had turned out. But it occurred to her  _ now _ how long it had been since she’d… done anything other than being a mother.

She felt horribly out of practice, especially sitting across from Evelyn Deavor, categorical working woman.

“Don’t worry.”

Helen looked up. Grimacing at the coffee, Evelyn hummed.

“That’s what we’re here for — to prepare. By the time we’re done, you’ll be more than confident… and I’ll have had a heart attack,” she added with a smirk, tilting her mug.

This choked a laugh out of her, weak and brief. She leaned onto the table, hand sprawling over her face, rubbing the tension between her eyes.

“Bob was always better at this stuff,” she admitted under her breath.

“What — interviews? Hell, I remember you on my little TV screen,  _ Elastigirl _ .” At that, Evelyn sat up straight, fists to hips, and recited, “’Good isn’t the power; it’s the rebellion.’ You were an icon.”

Something in her expression, then, called back to Helen’s more popular days — when young girls with stars in their eyes would ask her for autographs, and she’d have to think of something to write, to say, to somehow live up to that look they gave her. She would stay up late in her small, damp apartment, practicing her signature and scrawling out different catchphrases. She barely slept those days, consumed in the fire of having a voice, of being an example…

She huffed, reaching for her coffee. “The attention. That’s my weakness.”

The table trembled under Evelyn’s stretching legs as she lounged back against her armrest. “Eh, that’s the garbage part, anyway. Giving Supers celebrity status is a recipe for corruption — we know it, and yet we still do it. Adds incentive for the narcissists, I guess.”

Helen hummed. Warm liquid swirled in her cup, hypnotic.

“But that’s my headache,” Evelyn decided, crossing her arms. “What’s bothering  _ you  _ about this?”

She squinted against a bitter sip and sighed. “I don’t know… Being a mother, and a wife — it’s all behind closed doors. No one really sees it, or  _ assesses  _ it. It’s anonymous work, and it’s been my occupation for over a decade.”

“That sounds nice,” mumbled Evelyn, where Helen had expected her to call it ‘thankless’ or ‘lonely’ or ‘sad.’ Helen couldn’t tell if this was from a lack of experience, or a fresh perspective.

“It used to be.” Thumbnail to mouth, biting lightly, she added, “It just gets to a point that the people in your life stop seeing it, too. Not that I blame anyone; cooking and cleaning doesn’t exactly draw a spotlight, but…”

Her jaw tensed against her nail as warmth pricked the corners of her eyes. She focused on the window, finding the cloud trails left behind by the long-gone airplane.

“You lose sight of yourself, and that’s normal — but when the person you love can’t see you either, it makes you wonder if you’re still  _ there _ .”

The words were escaping their cages and she had half a mind to clamp her hand around them. But she continued to gnaw at her nail, eyes sleepy with emotion, easing down the puffy trail…

In her peripheral, Evelyn’s head turned away. “I’m sure he can see you.”

That’s what Helen told herself. Evelyn knew the script.

“Maybe,” she said in a breath, and shrugged. “I don’t know. After all this, with the ban on Supers and the moving and the fighting… He resents me, for so much that I wonder what I look like to him. That’s what  _ this  _ is — that’s why I hate the interviews and the press conferences and the, the…”

Her voice trailed off there, head shaking in denial of something she wasn’t saying. Thin tears burned behind her eyes, her mask feeling tight against the heat — and she let herself notice Evelyn, who watched all this with a beaten expression, as if something Helen said was hitting against her.

“I’m dressed like Elastigirl,” Helen recognized, throwing her arm out. “But I open my mouth, and I still sound like mom-jeans and soccer practices. And if my own  _ husband  _ can’t see me anymore, how can anyone else?”

The room drew to a pregnant pause, even the sun abandoning them as red twisted into purple and day to night, and the clever warmth of conversation to chilly silence. Her own words grated against her; she shouldn’t have shared so much. Now they were left to recover.

A hand landed on hers.

It was soft, and warm, and firm in its decision to wrap around her palm. Her eyes darted down toward the table, then to Evelyn, whose gaze was fixed on her already. She drew a shallow breath, but didn’t back down.

“I see you,” she said, in a dangerous and confidential tone, like a suspect confessing to a crime — like a doctor giving a fatal prognosis — like apologizing for something she hadn’t yet done. Helen’s breathing became a conscious effort.

Somehow, Evelyn had known exactly what to say to break her down.

_ Don’t do this… _

Helen’s free hand settled on Evelyn’s knee, fingers spreading over her leg, a warning shot. Evelyn’s eyelashes fluttered, and it sent piercing blows through Helen’s stomach.

_ Don’t do it,  _ she told herself, as she leaned out of her chair.  _ You’ll hurt someone. _

Her fingers tightened around Evelyn’s hand, and it felt comfortable. It was so easy to fall into her, like falling asleep.

She dove into the kiss headfirst, and the roar of her ears drowned out the voice in her head.

Jolting at the contact, Evelyn’s hand anchored to Helen’s arm as Helen leaned into her, almost knocking her backward. She relaxed into the kiss, and her mouth melted around Helen’s lips like chocolate, liquid fire rolling down her throat, filling her lungs with anxious air in a need to feel more, to inhale it like smoke. Shaky fingers spidered over Evelyn’s thigh and upward, hooking under her tank top to tug her closer…

Her lips drifted, and Helen stretched to follow them, eyes clenched shut. Evelyn’s chair wobbled as she sank to her knees before her, elbows set on either side of Helen’s lap. A rough grip came to Helen’s hips and dragged her to the edge of her seat, deepening the kiss, filling her with sighs; her hands caught on Evelyn’s shoulders, then moved up to splay into her hair…

Evelyn squeezed her ass, and Helen’s lips drifted down into a moan. Hooking her arms around Evelyn’s neck, she drew her backward until Evelyn crawled up into her chair — nearly knocked them over in her fervor, but they both caught a hand on the table for balance. Helen chuckled from her stomach, deep and reactive and natural, and Evelyn smiled against her and sighed. It was senseless, clumsy bliss, and they’d been there before, and she’d  _ missed  _ it.

She knew it was wrong — she could feel it.

But she also felt warm, and natural, and comfortable. She felt seen, in the way she  _ wanted  _ to be seen; she felt the world bending around them every time she closed her eyes, and she felt surrounded and lavished with attention, and she felt herself in Evelyn, like looking in the mirror. She felt something building, and whatever it was, it wasn’t  _ stopping _ .

She knew it was wrong. That much, she would own.

* * *

**_NOW_ **

* * *

_ “You are all I long for…” _

Warm lamplight bounced off the mirror to nearly blot her out of time and space, glaring in her peripheral as she wavered. A fitted maroon dress skidded over her hips; she balanced one hand on the dresser, leveraging her skirt with the other. Finally, it came loose, and she sighed.

It wasn’t too late in the evening — the sun had barely set, but Helen felt it everywhere in her body. She’d rather spend a night in with leftovers, but instead, she was slipping into clothes that barely fit and reminding her ears that they were still pierced.

_ “All I worship and adore…” _

Twisting an arm back, she zipped herself up in one swift motion. She inched closer to the mirror, shoulders shuffling into the dress. Her face still looked a bit bare, despite the deep powder concealing her dark circles; she scanned the makeup scattered over the dresser. From a few options, she decisively plucked up a dark lip color and popped off the cap.

Tonight was a momentous night, as it marked the first date she and Bob had made since resuming hero work. Honey and Lucius had orchestrated the double date for them, but ever since it had been planned, Bob was all song and dance. He’d been missing her, she knew.

_ “In other words, please be true…” _

Apart from Bob’s low voice in the bathroom, the house was silent — a benefit of staying in a damn  _ mansion _ , certainly. Helen still wasn’t sure she liked it. She felt so far from her kids, from the world, every time she shut a door. And the decoration was expensive, but very…  _ not _ -Parr. The furniture felt too rounded and polished, and far apart, and every room felt empty because of it.

The warm red slid over her lips easily, and as her wrist passed by, she caught the familiar scent of blackberry and cassis. She hadn’t worn perfume in at least a year, but her favorite scent still fit her like an old coat.

_ “In other words…” _

A bit of color smeared past her lip; she wet her finger and dabbed it away, only to smudge pink over her skin. She huffed a breath, and for the first time since the ordeal, Helen missed TV makeup. She’d enjoyed sitting in a chair and being done-up by professionals every other day. Helen didn’t count herself as vain, but looking nice every day was a luxury she hadn’t appreciated until now.

If she closed her eyes, she could smell the cakey powder they used. Her cheek could still feel the tickle of Evelyn’s thumb on an early morning, teasingly dabbing away a stray swipe of lipstick — keeping  _ so subtle  _ as she leaned over the back of her chair, muttering,  _ “And I’ll take the rest off later.” _

“Which tie?”

Helen’s eyes snapped open.

Haunting the doorway, Bob stood in a sharp gray jacket, a tie in each hand — one green, one blue. He weighed each in his hand, eyebrow arched at her. The bathroom light cast a strange shadow on him.

Sometimes she forgot he could see her do that.

She took a thoughtful glance between the two, and capped her lipstick. “Green.”

“Right,” he agreed, then nearly ducked back into the bathroom. But he did linger a second, gaze making a full journey over her figure — as if he’d forgotten who she was and needed this moment to remind himself. His brow furrowed, unreadable.

He looked… good.

This was more of an acknowledgment than a surprise; he always looked good, but tonight, he looked polished. His hair shone in soft curves and the lines of his suit cut good, clean angles, and his ass cleared the doorway just after he did, dragging her gaze along with it.

Teeth clamping around her lip, she let her lipstick clatter on the dresser.

Her steps were tiptoed at first, hesitant enough to change her mind; she crept up to the bathroom door, in rhythm with Bob’s humming. She peeked through the doorway to find Bob right where she’d left him — poised before the mirror, knotting his tie, foot tapping to his tune. He didn’t notice her lurking.

Her arms came first around his waist, and the rest of her tentatively followed. He relaxed back into her embrace, sighing out a smile as she came flush to his back. Stretching up to rest her chin on his shoulder, she met his gaze in the mirror.

“You look good,” she mumbled, and tickled a kiss into his neck.

The simplest touch drew all the tension from his body, like pulling a string on a doll. She envied him that.

His hand spread over hers where she held his waist. “I was about to say the same thing.”

“Well, aren’t you full of yourself?” she teased, letting her tongue brush his skin. After a moment, he chuckled.

“About  _ you. _ ”

“Sure, you were.”

“I was!”

“Mhm.” She gave him a playful nip, which interrupted his laughter to draw a noise from the base of his throat. He hastened through the knot and tucked it into his suit, already turning back toward her…

When they came face-to-face, she caught fir balsam and citron in the air, loose spirits captured between them. He was fresh and clean and soft and present, and giving her a smile like a goddamn weapon, and it was everything she used to die over.

She pushed into a kiss, and he caught it in time — inhaling hard against his cheek, pressing onto her toes to leverage against him, as though she were attempting to topple him or assert something over him. He balanced his hands under her elbows and held her steady; she deepened the kiss, drawing out the minty taste of his mouth, familiar and a little numbing.

It was so comfortable; it was so easy, and it drove her crazy. She laced her arms around his neck, trying to throw out a hint. But he just sighed and embraced her, surrounding her in warmth…

And it felt like  _ nothing _ . There was no bite, no sting of sweat or buzz of alcohol, no metallic bite on the inside of her lip, no scrape of nails under her shirt, no hissing whisper for her to  _ ask _ , to  _ beg to be fucked… _

She broke the kiss sharply, because she couldn’t keep  _ thinking  _ of her while she kissed  _ him _ . Her eyes snapped open, ready to explain herself — but Bob didn’t seem to notice her haste. He just raised his eyebrows, and let his forehead rest against hers.

“Damn,” he muttered, eyes bouncing between either of hers. “What’s the occasion?”

He didn’t see it. Her mind was swarming with terrible thoughts — for these past months, she’d been living in anguish, and he still couldn’t  _ see  _ it. He was staring right through her.

Pasting on a smile, she inched back a step. “No occasion.”

He wasn’t stupid. He just didn’t seem to know her at all anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hit me up with those reviews. Cya.


	3. Godless and Free

* * *

**_THEN_ **

* * *

Her laugh could knock down cities.

Helen could never see it coming — it bubbled up from somewhere deep, somewhere hidden, and escaped at the last moment as if she were holding it prisoner. The low rasps were insistent, and consuming, and shamefully rare; they left her catching breaths between chuckles, and it reminded Helen to take a breath, too.

“ _God_ ,” choked out Evelyn, margarita half-falling to the table. She huffed a few more laughs and wiped salt from her wet lips, eyes glassy as she blinked over at Helen. When their eyes met, they both coughed a few more laughs, even as the rest of the table settled down.

“And nobody else is seeing this going on?” Voyd clarified through a mouthful of tortilla chips.

Evelyn’s eyes widened seriously. “ _No_ . And for Christ’s sake, we’re not doing anything illegal here; we’re just tryna get some coffee, but this guy will _not_ leave us alone.”

Mouth aching a smile, Helen reached for her own drink. Evelyn’s amped-up tone matched the raw energy of drinks ‘round the table, bouncing mariachi playing over their heads, and the crackle and shriek of a passing skillet. Their story held the rapt attention of their newfound Super friends, sparing Reflux, who excused himself rather hastily after dinner.

Evelyn leaned back with a sigh, elbow resting on the back of Helen’s chair. “So then, he decides to make this even more uncomfortable, and he leans in real close and pokes me.” To demonstrate, she lightly jabbed Helen in the center of her chest — Helen chuckled. “Like this, and says, _‘So what’s your power, huh? Being a little_ **_bitch_ ** _?’_ ”

At the other end of the table, Winston’s head perked up at the language. He was the most sober of their company, which provided him the responsibility of keeping them welcome in the back of the restaurant. Helen tried to send him a look of reassurance, but the blear of alcohol turned it into something silly.

“And that’s just too clever not to engage with,” Evelyn continued, her voice buzzy and warm in Helen’s ear. She sat up a little and added, “So I respond, ‘Actually, I have x-ray vision. And if I were to wager a guess…”

“And she looks him over like _this_ ,” Helen jumped in, and imitated Evelyn’s scrutinizing top-down scan on Brick, who cracked a smile. “And she says-”

“’I’d say yours is to disappear,’” she said, visibly trying not to seem proud of herself. “And then I… poked him back.”

“In a _much_ different area.”

“That’s neither here nor there,” Evelyn shot back over the chorus of giggles. She waved a hand at them all before leaning on her fist. “But _his response_ …”

Helen smiled over the rim of her glass, and ignored Winston’s eyes on her. She knew he was watching the both of them; she knew they were sitting too close, and talking too loud, and drinking too much. But she was floating like a balloon and the world was moving like a fishbowl around her, warm and damp and slow. She was having a wonderful time.

An elbow pierced her side — Helen looked over at Evelyn, who smirked at her. “Go on. You do it better.”

Helen’s jaw hurt from smiling. “You can do it.”

"No, c'mon, just do it."

And Helen rolled her eyes, looking around the table. All eyes were on her, waiting for some kind of performance, for some entertainment. She huffed and finished off her glass, before settling into character.

Screwing up her face, Helen put on the most sniveling voice in her power, and jabbed a finger onto the table. “’ _You listen here, lady. My family — if you even knew who I was, you would not be doing this. Just you listen. My father is a respected man in this city, and you should- oh_ **_boy_ ** _, you do not want to mess with me. Things will not go well for you, I_ **_promise_ ** _.’_ ”

She really didn’t think it was that good of an impression, but Evelyn was all giggles at once. The others — save Winston and Screech, who were engaged in some other conversation at the end of the table — were thoroughly amused, to Helen’s relief.

“Yes!” Evelyn shouted, and grabbed Helen’s arm. “And what was it afterward? It was like-”

“’ _Do you_ **_know_ ** _who I am?’_ ” Helen finished through her nose, her shoulders getting into it. “ _’Take a guess. I want you to guess.’_ ”

Evelyn licked her lips. “And so I just drop my hand and go, ‘A slow fucking barista.’ And in the _loudest_ voice I’ve ever heard in a public establishment-”

“ _’I’m_ **_royalty_ ** _in this town, you inbred raccoon!’_ ”

That was the line that sent the tipsy table into roars, to the point that servers peeked over from the kitchen. Even Evelyn, the object of this outlandish insult, wiped at her eyes between giggles. She certainly hadn’t been this amused at the time; she’d left the coffee shop still ranting over the service. Helen had been hesitant to even begin the story.

But she was laughing now, and it brought Helen higher than anything. Her face burned with pride and humor and the blinding heat of the nearby kitchen steam, and a hint of her own shame as she felt a thousand pairs of eyes watching the way she looked at Evelyn — and she felt Winston’s growing silence across the way, and wondered if he could see it. Helen wasn’t usually paranoid, but tonight, she wondered if everyone could see the way she burned for her.

“Are you finished yet?”

Helen jumped at the voice overhead, and turned back to find a waitress over her shoulder. She stumbled over a response, but followed the girl’s gaze to the dish before her. Helen lifted her plate. “Yes, thank you.”

The girl nodded and continued her way around the table, which brought the conversation down to a lull. Voyd took up the topic with her own experience in food service, but Helen missed the beginning behind the clatter of cleared plates and the flare of a new song in the air. Her ears pulsed, and she blinked a few times; she zoned out, sneaking a look over her shoulder.

Evelyn was actually listening with intense focus, sleepy grin lopsided as she rested on her hand. Her gaze flicked over briefly, then caught as she noticed Helen’s attention — her smile widened, and she flashed a wink. Helen took a deep breath and turned back to the others, though under the table, her hand sneaked over Evelyn’s thigh…

Sometimes, she wondered if she wanted to get caught. This was primarily when she drank; but the thought was there, itching at her over time, like a cheap sweater. Perhaps she really wanted to be called out, to shame herself, to make herself stop. She just couldn’t _stop-_

Glass clinked sharp into Helen’s ear, and her hand jerked back to her own lap. She and Evelyn looked over, up to a now-standing Winston with his drink raised high. His eyes were not on them. Helen’s muscles released.

“Well, I think it’s time for a toast,” Winston announced with kind eyes and a cautious volume. He gestured around the table in a sweeping motion. “I can’t express how glad I am to have met you all — to see Supers emerging from the shadows again, from all walks of life. I can’t wait to work with all of you, as we usher in a new golden age for Supers everywhere.”

Helen raised her empty glass to that, stretching out to clink glasses with several of her newfound friends. Even Evelyn, who was vocal in her distaste for gratuitous speeches, met her with a click and a, “Here, here.” She knocked back the last of her drink, smiling against the salted rim.

“Looking around at you all,” continued Winston, as their verbalization died down. He took a moment, nodding slowly as he inhaled. “I can finally see for myself what our father saw in superheroes. If he were here today, I _know_ …”

As his voice trailed off along with his gaze, a wave of warmth left Helen’s body. All glasses hung in the air in anticipation, though the gleeful expressions faltered. Helen’s attention drifted back around.

Evelyn sat suddenly mirthless, dilated pupils locked on her brother in silent study. Salt clung to her lower lip, and her eyebrows drew together.

Winston cleared his throat. “I know he’d be proud of what we’re doing together. Thank you,” he said finally, and sat back down. Beside him, Screech set a hand on his shoulder in comfort. Voyd muttered her condolences.

For the rest of the group, as they eased back to life, this sentiment hung poignant and gracious in the air. But Evelyn’s usual slouch was brought tense, her gaze steely across the table — and Winston met it with a soft, unaffected expression. Some silent exchange was made, and though neither pair of eyes wavered, Helen felt inexplicably involved.

The room was warmer than she’d realized.

A chair squealed in Helen’s ear; Evelyn turned out of her chair, nearly escaping without a word. As she pushed her seat in, she did catch Helen’s puzzled expression and muttered, “I need a smoke.”

She turned toward the back door, and Helen watched her go. Laughter swelled behind her in a disorienting mixture of emotion.

“My first time wasn’t so fun,” Voyd said with a sheepish grin, brushing her bangs behind her ear. “I was, like, six-ish, and I was supposed to be sleeping, but I’d just gotten this new foam tee-ball set and I wanted to play. So I was sitting on my bed, throwing the ball up in the air — and I _really_ wasn’t supposed to make any noise, so I couldn’t let it fall…”

Helen knew there was something blatant about following Evelyn outside, but everything in her wanted to go anyway. She squirmed in her seat.

“Eventually, I threw it too far, farther than I could reach from the bed — but I dove for it anyway. And instead of catching it, this _black hole_ thing opened up and swallowed up the ball! So I freaked out and started looking for the ball, because I _just_ got this thing and was _not_ about to lose it-”

Helen wasn’t sober enough to come up with a good excuse; she quietly rose to her feet while all eyes were trained on Voyd. She risked no glance back at the table, for fear that she’d be caught by Winston’s gaze as she made for the exit.

“-it drops on my head! So for the next month, I’m convinced there’s a rift in time-space over my bed.”

Chuckles and trumpets and stacking plates masked the creak as Helen pushed out into the night, the symphony fading to a dull roar as the glass door whiffed to a close. Finally, there was silence.

The evening was blue and cool, a breeze tickling her neck with her first steps. Traffic rumbled somewhere, but the parking lot was near-empty — glistening with old rain, smelling of cigarettes. Helen followed her nose around the corner, boots only slipping once in the wet.

Perched against the brick stood a gloomy Deavor, puffing like a campfire. Her hair feathered up in finger-shaped rows, and on her opposite side, a lit cigarette flickered between her knuckles. She toed at pink blossoms, blown across the asphalt from a line of bushes.

When she heard Helen approaching, her head lifted — and Helen caught the gloss of tears hanging in her eyes, just before she turned for a long drag of smoke. Helen took her silence as a permission and settled beside her, hips resting back against the cracked wall.

The wind picked up, whisking away the puckered flower at their feet. Evelyn sighed out through her nose, eyes rolling back.

“He makes asses of us both,” she muttered through the gravel in her throat. She coughed into the back of her hand and used the opportunity to subtly wipe at her eye.

“He’s just trying to honor your parents,” Helen said.

Blinking off stray dampness, Evelyn nodded numbly. “I know.”

In a matter of minutes, Helen had become far too sober; the lack of noise amplified the roaring in her ears. She laid her head back and closed her eyes for a moment, reducing her reality to the breeze in her hair, the starting and stalling engines, and the whistle of Evelyn’s smoking.

“Sometimes,” Evelyn started, just a whisper, “I wonder if this is really what they wanted. Win’s so wrapped up in it, but I keep… losing track of our intentions.”

Helen’s fingers ran under the edges of her mask. “What do you mean?”

She ground her heel into the asphalt as she thought this over. “I don’t know. It feels so commercialized sometimes — like the attention and the praise is supposed to bring everything back. Ever since Mom died, Win’s been nonstop on _this one thing_. It’s his grief project.”

“I’m sure he’s just trying to do the right thing,” Helen said, and altogether removed her mask. The cool air hit her face at once, sending chills down her neck.

“Right,” Evelyn mumbled around her cig. She inhaled a long, greedy breath, shoulders relaxing into her body. “I think he confuses the ‘right thing’ with ‘the thing that makes people happy.’”

Helen chuckled at that, though the sound was hoarse. “Don’t we all?”

Her fist closed around her mask, gloved thumb running over the smooth frame. Perhaps it was the margaritas and salsa making home in her system, or perhaps it was the subject — Helen’s stomach worked into a twist, a pang of anxious energy rushing through her veins. For once, she appreciated Evelyn’s lack of eye contact.

Sometimes, she remembered what she was doing. It was nauseating.

Without a word, Helen stretched over and stole Evelyn’s cig, taking a nice long drag of mind-numbing ash. Evelyn eyed her but made no complaint.

All the tension in her body released with a breath, throat burning and eyes stinging. She squeezed her eyes shut and returned Evelyn’s property.

“I don’t think any of us has a moral high ground right now,” Helen admitted, sighing. “We’re all breaking the law, in an organized fashion.”

“Fuck the law,” Evelyn said — and Helen’s eyebrows shot up. She looked over to find Evelyn’s eyes rolling. “Laws don’t enforce morality — they were invented to keep the poor from robbing and killing the rich. Jesus, fuck.”

She was a little more drunk than Helen had realized. Again, she didn’t have much of a high ground there.

Turning to face her, Helen replied, “Whether or not we agree with the law, we need it. Without law, there’d be chaos.”

“I’m not- this isn’t an anti-law rant,” Evelyn amended with a flair of her hand. “It’s all of it — the law, and the gods, and the books, and the doctors… It’s bullshit, having other people stand up and _decide_ who people can be, and who has authority — who’s normal and who’s not.”

“Yeah, but we have to-”

“Helen, you’re fucking _illegal_ ,” she cut her off, using her name a bit too loudly. Her eye contact was intense. “For being different. _I’m_ illegal, too. The rules aren’t made for us — they’re made against us, because we’re different.”

Helen’s chest deflated. She blinked into Evelyn’s stare, lips parting but struggling to think of a response.

Finally, Evelyn turned back to the parking lot, gaze sweeping over their deserted environment. Smoke poured out of her like a steaming teapot.

“When everything’s so fucked, how do you know what’s right?” This sounded rhetorical as she looked out into the dim blue sky; but she turned to Helen. “If anyone should have the answer, it’s a superhero, isn’t it?”

And everything in her wanted to give Evelyn a solid answer, to provide some sort of comfort to this jaded, grieving person in front of her — to give her hope in the same concept that had let her down years ago — but she had nothing true to say. She bit her lip, and shook her head lightly.

“Strange abilities and a shiny costume don’t give you the answers to anything,” Helen admitted, the same knot tugging inside her stomach. She reached out, and Evelyn surrendered the cigarette. “I used to think I knew everything. Now… I have no idea what’s right anymore.”

She drew a heavy breath and held it in for as long as she could, letting it burn. It rushed out like a loose faucet and left her achingly vacant.

Sniffing, Evelyn crossed her arms. “Is that because of me?”

The words brushed against Helen’s cheek with a tickle, so small and self-deprecating. She glanced sideways at Evelyn, studying the expression on her face — her sunken eyes swirling with sarcasm and guilt, her mouth twitching into something not a smile but not a frown.

Maybe it was Helen’s imagination, but Evelyn seemed to carry that hint of guilt all the time — over her parents, maybe, or her sexuality, or whatever complex she had toward her brother — and now over Helen, and something they were both doing. She wondered how Evelyn could carry that weight all the time, and what it did to her when no one was looking.

Helen shook her head again, as simple a response as she could offer. She didn’t know how to tell Evelyn that it wasn’t her fault — that none of it was her fault — so she just shook her head and hoped it said the words for her.

Stretching her arm around Evelyn’s waist, she pulled her closer. Evelyn slumped against Helen’s side, head falling onto her shoulder. Helen sneaked a kiss into her hair; Evelyn returned a kiss to Helen’s hand as she wriggled the cigarette out of her grasp. An ember flickered in Helen’s peripheral as she rested her cheek in Evelyn’s hair.

The conversation died there, blotted out by the long silence as she and Evelyn stood in a huddle, touched by the wind as it carried traces of brassy music and laughter from inside — only to catch up a few more pink petals, and curls of smoke, and blow them all away.

* * *

**_NOW_ **

* * *

Sometimes, she went for too long.

It was easy to lose track of doing it, throughout the day or in bed at night, surrounded by family or in the safety of isolation. It was an instinct, a bodily reflex to stress or boredom or arousal, a distraction from her thoughts — an instant off-switch to every bad memory or haunting thought. It was her guilty pleasure, and it scared her.

Steam billowed up from the stove, so dense and wet where it hung in the air that she could barely make out the contents of the skillet. Her ears were thick with silence, the hiss of tiny oil bubbles, and the compounding ring of her own aching head. She blinked, a lazy motion, and the world folded around her like a warping lens.

At first, it was just to get off. When release was less than forthcoming and she couldn’t stop racing, flashing images, and she just wanted to toss over and fall asleep, she’d squeeze her eyes shut and take a deep breath, and hope he didn’t notice that she never let it out. He didn’t.

Holding her breath made the images stop — made everything stop, all at once, and let her feel that numbness all at once. It was just sexual. It wasn’t so dangerous then.

Day was turning night outside, a dull blue blanketing every surface and turning everything fuzzy. The house was silent, and she was alone this evening; so she stayed in the dark all she liked and let her eyes flutter shut against the steam, just like falling asleep…

As she waited longer and longer, the void behind her eyelids rolled yellow, and pink, and brighter than anything outside. She felt buoyant, full of helium — a ghost of a thing in a heavy atmosphere, barely held down to earth. Her lips parted, and her chest tightened.

She’d been drunk in the bath one night, when she dipped down into the water. Her ears were pounding with tension and she just wanted to relax, and her head found the bottom of the tub… Warm water and darkness turned to a lightheaded feeling, and she fell into it, until she forgot she wasn’t breathing.

For a moment, she wondered if she wanted to come back up.

She hadn’t been in the bath since.

Lately, her lungs stopped screaming at her. That fear of passing out, that panicked feeling, faded with a morbid curiosity and a simple lack of care, and the slow burn of building arousal…

Her ears warbled as her heart pounded in her chest, an ironic thing. Knuckles white around the stove handle, she pressed her hips against the oven door, the heat of the stovetop licking at the hairs on her arms as she leaned closer. Her nose scrunched; she ground her hips against the handle, chasing after friction.

It wasn’t until their fifth night together that Evelyn wrapped her hands around Helen’s throat. The initial horror met with the certainty and lust in Evelyn’s eyes, and all Helen could do was let it happen — see if she liked it — see if it did something new. One off night became two off nights, became every other night, became some kind of psychological display of power that Helen hadn’t tried to interpret until long after. Sitting on her chest, forcing her to hold her breath, forcing her to wait…

Evelyn never did anything without hearing an “okay”. Helen’s lips lied for her.

Clamping her mouth tight shut against the instinctive exhale, Helen gritted her teeth. Waves of pleasure met pangs of physiological panic, up and down her body, lungs cramping and walls pounding. A shaky hand inched over her jeans, fingers curving over the fabric and finding the heat.

It wasn’t something Bob could emulate for her. Never in a million years would he put _his_ hands around her neck, even if she asked. It wasn’t responsible for a man of his strength to play with these ideas, no matter how harmless his intention.

Even so, he didn’t have that kind of darkness in him. He loved her too damn much — so much more than she deserved, so much that she couldn’t look him in the eye anymore, so much that she could barely stand to lie beside him anymore-

Air choked its way through her throat and she retched an exhale, catching herself on the countertop. Breaths wracked her body as violently as they were withheld, and she coughed and gasped and panted through the reaction.

She starved herself of air to stop the shame, most of all, but the thoughts always found another way in.

Swallowing hard, Helen shoved the skillet onto the back burner and slumped against the counter. Her fingers blindly grabbed a hand towel; she dried the steam and hints of sweat from her face. Breaths ached throughout her chest, and she shuddered through them. Her heart raced, on the verge of a panic attack or a cardiac episode…

A door slammed.

Helen raised her head toward the sound, blinking away the blurs in her eyes. This was either Violet home from theatre practice, or the boys returning from the batting cages. She prayed for the former as she tried to collect herself, fanning the red heat from her face.

No one announced themselves. Helen furrowed her brow, waiting for a moment more.

“Bob?” she called.

There was no response, aside from distant and violent footsteps. Her eyes widened.

Helen tossed the towel aside and shoved off the counter, taking cautious steps toward the doorway. Around the corner, she spotted no one, but followed the stomping noises down the hall. She crept near-silently behind the visitor, peeking her head in toward the living room…

A backpack flew supernaturally across the room, thudding onto the couch. A jacket slunk off to the floor as a pair of converse stole away up the stairs. Helen drew a breath.

“Vi?”

 _“No, it’s your_ **_other_ ** _invisible daughter!”_

The footsteps did not stop until a door creaked open and slammed shut. The overhead fit was punctuated by the telltale squeak of a teenage body flung into bed.

Helen did not take this tone, but she hesitated to issue any kind of scolding. Violet sounded unwell.

So Helen hushed her thumping heart and headed up after her daughter, stretching over the squeakier steps. As she came to the top and rounded the corner, faint huffing breaths met her ears.

Biting her lip, she approached the door. “Violet?” she called again, her tone deliberate.

_“I’m in a meeting!”_

Helen smirked, resting against the doorframe. “Are you all right? Did something happen at practice?”

_“I’m not in the mood to talk, Mom. Can you just…”_

This was cut off by a hiccuped breath, and Helen’s resolve doubled. She inched closer to the door, softening her voice.

“Can I come in?” she asked. “We don’t have to talk.”

There was a long silence, as Violet took a few sniffs and silently deliberated this. Helen waited impatiently.

_“Whatever. Door’s open.”_

As soon as the words were out, Helen opened the door.

There she found, in a similar darkness, an invisible huddle of clothing pressed against a sea of pillows, arms locked around knees. A few stray pillows and books and bedside items were strewn across the floor, the clear result of fitful throwing. Helen hesitated to enter.

But she did, and eased the door shut behind her. Once she reached the foot of the bed, Violet’s legs stretched out to reveal her tear-stained, all-black stage crew uniform. Helen sat on the edge of the bed and looked about where Violet’s eyes would be, silent.

“Tony and I broke up,” she explained, shoulders shaking as she did. “It just… happened. Out of nowhere.”

“Oh, honey-”

Violet crashed into her side, gripping Helen’s shirt and burying her head into Helen’s shoulder. Helen caught her just in time, stunned for a moment — but her arms reacted ahead of her, draping around her invisible daughter and drawing her in tight. Violet let out a sob, quiet but there, and another…

“-as so _stupid_ ,” came her muffled response, head tossing in denial. She lifted her chin enough to speak. “He said he _loved_ me, and I couldn’t say it back, and he couldn’t understand why…”

Helen’s expression fell at that. She rested her cheek against Violet’s hair, sighing. “I’m so sorry, honey. That’s awful.”

“-and it’s not like I’ve ever been in love before,” she continued, drawing back to wipe her nose on her sleeve. “He’s my first boyfriend! We’ve only been dating a couple months — I wasn’t expecting that.”

“I know,” Helen reassured her, and managed to brush Violet’s hair back without poking her in the eye. “And you shouldn’t say something like that before you’re ready. You did the right thing.”

“But he broke _up_ with me,” she shot back, sniffing. “How am I supposed to know what I feel if he breaks up with me? It’s _stupid_.”

Helen nodded her agreement, hand running down Violet’s shoulder. “I know, hon.”

“No- it’s a question, Mom,” Violet reiterated, and slumped back onto the mattress in exasperation. Her sleeves came over her face. “ _How_ do you know? How can he even tell if he loves me or- or if he just likes me?”

Leaning back on her hand, Helen sighed. “I don’t know how he knows, or if he really knows what that means. Everyone feels things differently — slower or faster — sometimes more extremely…”

“How did you know?” Violet asked again, mattress shifting to indicate she was looking at her mother. She sniffed. “What does it feel like? Like, to _really_ love someone enough to know.”

That question gave Helen a bit of pause. She licked her lips, gaze drifting off a bit.

“I don’t know, exactly,” Helen tried to explain. Folding her hands in her lap, she gave this more thought. “I guess… I guess for me, being in love feels like…”

_Like dying. Like being lit on fire and rolling in it and just getting worse all the time. Like burying everything you want and believe in this tiny hole in your mind because you’re so enraptured in this other person that you’re willing to give up everything…_

These were things she didn’t consider fit advice for her daughter. She swallowed.

“For me, being in love feels like… like your brain changes,” Helen began. “Your thoughts start to revolve around someone else, instead of yourself. Not all the time — not like an obsession, you know, but like there’s a second person inside you all the time, just dormant. And the smallest things remind you of them, and everything they do affects you, and everything _you_ do affects them…”

Violet was frozen, listening intently. Helen became acutely aware that this was a teaching moment for her daughter, but she couldn’t seem to stop the words from coming out.

“It’s like your life freezes every time they leave the room, and waits until they come back. And everything else, everything you thought you wanted, just… becomes background noise.” Her eyes lowered to the blankets, following the flower pattern. “And you know you shouldn’t, but in those moments when they’re right there in front of you, you’re willing to give up anything to keep them close.”

And if she ever hated herself most, it was when she talked about Bob and Evelyn in the same damn breath.

For a long minute, nothing was said. Helen couldn’t read any expression from her daughter, so there was no telling what she thought of this spiel. She spread her fingers over the sheets absentmindedly.

“Did you give things up?”

Helen’s head shot up, and found Violet’s eyes locked on hers, and the rest of her daughter back in view. Helen blinked.

“For Dad,” Violet clarified, tilting her chin down.

Biting her lip, Helen replied calculatedly, “A few things. Sometimes that’s what it takes to build a life with someone.”

Violet visibly didn’t take to that, as her head dropped back and she set her eyes on the ceiling. “I don’t want to give up anything for a boy.”

This hit Helen like a dart. She nodded slowly.

“You shouldn’t,” she managed weakly, and reached for her daughter’s hand. “For anyone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, lemme know what you thought. Thanks!


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